


Candlelit Silence: A novel about the Plague

by Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)



Series: Project Eclipse [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Ambition, Angst, Backstory, Castles, Conflict, Conversations, Depression, Doctors & Physicians, Dungeon, Elizabethan, First Meetings, Gen, Guilt, Historical, Horror, Knights - Freeform, Loneliness, Male Protagonist, Medieval Medicine, Murder, Novel, Plague, Pride, Prologue, Regret, Robbery, Royalty, Shakespearean Language, Social Anxiety, Suspense, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11631831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry
Summary: Paschal de Saint-Clair wants to prove he's a thief, not a murderer. Sir Baudwin Napier wants to resign from knighthood and be with a family that loves him. Plague doctor Klaus Fleischer wants to save England, then the world, from the Black Death once and for all.Meanwhile, the conceited 3rd Earl of Devonshire needs to send a plague doctor to London, as the city has lost its last to the disease. Rather than execute de Saint-Clair for his charges of murder, he decides to put him to good use as Dr. Fleischer's escort. To keep an eye on the criminal and protect the doctor, he sees no one better than Sir Baudwin.At the beginning of their journey, these three dissimilar men are indifferent to each other at best. By the end, though, they will need to have learned to accept and care for one another, whether they like it or not. Because the only thing worse than how the plague ravages the body is how fear of it ravages the mind . . .A fictional historical suspense novel by Noëlle McHenry, set during the English Restoration, about three men finding friendship in unlikely places.***ABANDONED: I'll post up until chapter seven, the last chapter I wrote.***





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Cover: <http://fav.me/dbhw1wf>
> 
> My first ever officially abandoned/discontinued work. Please enjoy what of it I did write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (December 29th, 2017): General touch-ups.  
> Edit (August 2nd, 2017): Added more detail to the final segment, made a plot device more obvious and provided a character's recognition of it.

All around him lingered the pungent scent of iron. It flooded his pores—sank into his clothing—and he doubted that he would ever be able to wash it out. Gripped in his left hand was a silver dagger. Its tip glinted like a ruby in the flickering light of the candle lantern in the corner.  
            He hadn’t expected her to return so soon after leaving. If he hadn’t acted fast, her screams would’ve attracted guards. But now, she laid on the floor in silence. Her delicate throat still oozed red, though not as steadily as it had before. A pool of the same viscous substance had spread out across the wooden floor. It wrapped around her somewhat, as if trying to engulf her.  
            He knew he could’ve avoided this if he’d only been patient—if he’d only waited ten more minutes before entering her home. Then she wouldn’t have posed any risk to him. She would’ve gone to the market to make a secret purchase, as he’d seen her do once every week. He wouldn’t have had to stab her, much less slit her throat in a desperate effort to stop her shrieks. But he’d grown sick of waiting and decided to take a risk instead. If he’d only known what would happen, he would’ve waited even longer than ten minutes. He’d only come in to loot for valuables. Why had she come back? Had she changed her mind at the last second?  
            Her husband was away, as he worked into the late hours of the night, but he’d return home within the hour. Before he did, he needed to have disappeared, not only from the scene in which he sat, but from France altogether. All the better to start running now, he thought. And yet he couldn’t. He sat, petrified, staring at her body.  
            Sure, he was a thief, but he wasn’t a murderer. He’d panicked. She hadn’t left him with any other choice. With wide eyes, he stared at her fair face still contorted in horror. Bit by bit it imprinted itself into his mind. There was no doubt about it—her image would haunt him to the grave.  
            There was no telling how long he’d spent sitting and staring, but however long was _too_ long. When he finally managed to stand, he dropped the dagger as if it burned him to hold it. From the table in the corner he grabbed the candle lantern she’d brought inside. He’d watched her and her husband for weeks and had assumed them rich. But the only valuable thing he found was the candle lantern. So he rummaged around until he found their money. Then he fled from the home and ran like mad.  
            In his haste, he forgot his dagger. It belonged to his family and had his family name engraved upon it as a result, but he didn’t even think about that. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Because even though he’d left the house, he could still see his own reflection in her dead eyes, as if he was still there. He wished that it had only been a twisted nightmare; at any moment he would awaken from it in the safety of his bed.  
            He’d never been so lucky. Now was no exception.  
            The sun had come up by the time he made it out of the city. No one was pursuing him. Though under normal circumstances he would’ve, he refused to allow himself to get cocky. He was certain that they were searching for him. They would find him soon if he didn’t leave. He made a stop at his own home, but only stayed long enough to grab his pouch of money. It was all stolen, of course, or made by selling stolen goods to merchants. With the money, he bought himself a place on a boat destined for England. He spoke to no one during the trip. The heaviness of fear and regret in his breast constricted his throat.

* * *

The local guards discovered her body after her husband led them back to the house. All the way there, he’d wailed, “O, woeful night! O, woe!” He was hysterical, of course. Who wouldn’t be after returning from work to find their love murdered?  
            It was a gruesome scene, with blood everywhere. Unfortunately it wasn’t anything that most of the guards were unfamiliar with. The smell was terrible, and the humidity of the house even in the night didn’t help anything.  
            It didn’t take them long to notice the bloodied silver dagger on the floor. Using the lantern they’d brought with them, they examined it. Carved into its hilt was a name: “de Saint-Clair”. At once they knew who they were looking for. They only had to find him.

* * *

A few days later, he found himself somewhere in Devonshire. He found himself a room at an inn using the rest of his money. Now all he had on his person was her money and candle lantern. The latter, he doubted he needed. How much would he be able to get for it, he wondered?  
            His mind was finally beginning to clear. Yes, he still felt guilty about his crime, but no punishment would befall him. While part of him yearned to go back and turn himself in, where was the sense in that? He’d escaped. He was free to continue as he always had—it wasn’t an honest living he made, but it was still a living. Her murder had been her own fault. She’d made him do it by coming back so soon. His only choice now was to move on with his life. At least now he was unknown to the local guards.  
            He’d laid his head down on the pillow to sleep when his eyes shot open. A startling realization: he’d forgotten his dagger at the scene! This mightn’t have been an issue, if only the dagger didn’t have his family name on it. That name was well known to the guards in his hometown—hell, to the whole of France! How long would it take for them to find out where he’d fled to and spread word of his crimes across England? Not long, he figured. If they didn’t already know about him, then they would in a few days. He had to lay low. Maybe they’d stop searching for him at some point.  
            When he roamed the town he found himself in, he did so with caution. He found himself eyeing people on the street, trying to find someone to steal from. Yet, for some reason, he could never bring himself to choose a target. Something had changed. He was too worried that if he tried to rob again, it would go wrong and someone else would wind up dead. Now that he no longer had a weapon, he worried that someone would be him.  
            Over the course of a week, his remaining money soon dwindled down to nothing. He couldn’t get a job, though; what if someone recognized him? His only hope was to sell the candle lantern for a high price. He kept a low profile as he approached a merchant. They began to barter, but as it progressed, it became more and more clear that he wasn’t going to be able to get a decent pay.  
            That was when a patrolling guard noticed and, unfortunately, recognized him. What ensued for the thief was a run for his life. More guards joined the cause to catch him. They chased him up and down the city for a quarter of an hour. And for the first time in his life, Paschal de Saint-Clair got caught.


	2. Exeter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (December 31st, 2017): General updates. Changed dialogue to sound more archaic, using Shakespeare as a reference. Split chapter in half.  
> Edit (August 2nd, 2017): Removed omniscient narration segment. Added details about Sir Baudwin's ascension to knighthood to help suspension of disbelief. Changed all instances of "Lord Napier" to "Sir Baudwin" for authenticity.  
> Originally posted August 1st, 2017.

Paschal awoke to the sound of the dungeon’s heavy wooden door swinging open and closed. The first thing he saw was the stone ceiling above him. It was humid in the dungeon, but not unbearable, even despite all the clothing he wore. Rather than look to see if his surroundings had changed, he clasped his hands and exhaled as he continued to gaze at the ceiling.  
            He’d been in the city’s general prison for about three days. Then they’d moved him to a town—Exeter, apparently—to remain in the dungeon of a castle. From what he’d heard, it belonged to the 3rd Earl of Devonshire. Not that he cared. All he thought was that he’d rather be here than in the previous prison. At least this cell had a cot for him to lie on.  
            To his right, on the wall beyond the bars of his cage, there was a candle. It was lit, despite the beams of light that slipped in through the tiny barred window at the top of the wall beside him.  
            _What a waste of a candle_ , he thought to himself.  
            Light blue battled with orange on glistening specks of the stone bricks that made up the ceiling. At times, it almost looked like a mockery of purple. As Paschal watched it, he felt at ease. He was alone in the dungeon. All the other cells were empty. Thus, there was a serene silence around him. He felt at peace, despite the fact that he was pretty sure they would execute him soon. Why else would they have brought him to the Earl’s castle?  
            The biggest question in his mind was how they’d recognized him. He was in England, but had committed all his crimes in France. Sure, they knew him and his family there, enough to make illustrations of him to post around. Had they given that to the English, though? As far as he knew, the woman he’d had to murder wasn’t of that much importance. He wouldn’t have tried to rob her if she was. So he had to wonder why they’d go to so much trouble; beyond the murder, he was only a petty thief.  
            Despite the threat of death, Paschal remained comfortable, for he was an optimist. It was certain in his head that he could find a way to escape before his execution. He’d made a mistake, or rather two considering he got caught, but both were flukes. He had talent, he knew he did. Making a great escape would be easy for him. All he needed was some time to come up with a plan, and it seemed like he had plenty of that.  
            When he turned his head to the right, he almost jumped out of his black, poet-collared leather boots. There was tall and bulky man there now. Judging by his armour, he appeared to be a knight. His helmet was off, revealing a head of ginger hair and a full beard of the same colour. He had angry eyebrows and a square-jawed, hard-set face. There was an unbridled, intense degree of contempt in his eyes as he glared at Paschal. His armour looked like wood, but the way the candlelight refracted off revealed its metal nature.  
            Paschal sat up, now turning his full attention on the strange knight. “I have not lain mine eyes upon you before,” he remarked in his thick French accent. “I would remember such a giant. You are a knight, yes?”  
            There was no response from the harsh-looking man. This caused the thief a surge of anger in his breast. He despised being ignored almost as much as he hated being interrupted. Regardless, he calmed himself. Though it didn’t look like it at the moment, he knew he had the upper hand, so he decided to not let the knight’s silence daunt him.  
            “Strong silent type, then? I respect that. Admire it, even.”  
            “Forbear thy prating,” commanded the knight in a terse and unexpected Scottish accent.  
            “Oh,” said Paschal in mock surprise, “you speak. And you’re a Scotsman! Suppose I could’ve guessed that, what with your red hair.” There was again no answer. Not one to let an awkward silence develop, Paschal decided to keep talking. “I am delighted to not be left in my own company. But is there reason for your presence?”  
            Again, silence. The knight little more than stirred. He only glared, without an end in sight.  
            Paschal had a plan. It was risky, but it couldn’t end worse than his last. Either way, he was confident it would work, to the point of arrogance.  
            “Hark, sirrah”—that alone earned him a harsher look from the knight. As a result, he flashed him a handsome grin. “I wot I bother you. Why not fight me like a man?” If he accepted, Paschal knew he stood no chance. What the knight didn’t know, though, was that he didn’t plan to fight. The moment the gate to his cage swung open, he planned to dodge and make his great escape in a full sprint.  
            With slow steps, the knight approached the cell. Paschal did his best not to shrink back. He tilted his head up to match the Scot’s stare.  
            “What sort of fool dost thou take me for?” asked the knight.  
            Paschal stood up and held out his arms at his sides. The frills at the end of the sleeves of his white shirt, under his dark blue vest and black overcoat, flowed as he moved. “Come now,” he urged. “Methinks obvious that you’d list to shut me up, for I will not shut myself up. Therefore you must act.”  
            “Be that why thou committed murder? Because thou ‘had to act’?”  
            The thief’s mood soured at once, his face falling into a deep frown. He watched the knight smirk at the sight of his solemnity, then sneered at him.  
            “You might’ve won the battle, Sir Knight,” he hissed, “but you’ve not won the war.”

* * *

Cederic Gilpin, 3rd Earl of Devonshire—or, as he was oft called, Lord Devonshire—let out a deep breath. He sat in his study. Piled on his desk were various books and letters. He held one of the latter in his pale, veiny hands, up to the candlelight.  
            Yesterday, the most important letter had come all the way from France. It regarded what he was to do with the thief his men had apprehended half a week ago. Overall it was a good letter, as it told that he could execute the man in whichever manner he saw fit. With it, they’d also sent the dagger found near the dead woman’s body. Carved into the hilt was the prisoner’s family name: “de Saint-Clair”. It was a beautiful dagger made of silver. In fact, he liked it so much that he had it kept on his belt at that very moment. Perhaps he’d give de Saint-Clair his just deserts by slitting his throat with it. The town would like that kind of poetic justice. It would help his public image, and he’d do anything in his power to boost the county’s approval of him.  
            All of that was yesterday’s news, though. This morning, the messenger had brought him a new letter, of more importance than the last. From London, it spoke of a matter of utmost urgency. He had vague knowledge of the current, tragic state of London; the plague had returned with a vengeance. What he hadn’t known was that everyone who could afford it was evacuating the city. Even the king had left. All that remained were the ones who were too poor or too attached to leave.  
            Another thing he hadn’t known was that they had no physicians left in the city. Their last had died a few days prior. It was both terrifying and ironic that he’d died of the same dreadful disease he’d sought to treat. The letter mentioned that it was one of many sent to various other towns. It was a desperate cry for help, calling for at least one efficient plague doctor to save them.  
            Lord Devonshire read the letter three times in full, another two in bits and pieces. London was almost two-hundred miles away; a three-day trip at least. He doubted, though, that many of the other nearby towns had any plague doctors to spare. Such physicians were rare and expensive, given the occupation’s high mortality rate. Few people were willing to risk their lives, even for a high reward.  
            Exeter, on the other hand . . . It had quite a few plague doctors. He liked having them, as they were all rather well-received by the townsfolk. All but one. If he sent away his least popular plague doctor, he could kill two birds with one stone! No more would his townsfolk feel uncomfortable around a foreign physician, but he’d seem a kind-hearted Earl, giving London help in a time of need.  
            He convinced himself that his beloved father, Arthur Gilpin, 2nd Earl of Devonshire, would’ve done the same thing. He strived to do what his father did—to become even more well-known and respected than him. He wanted the whole country to hail him like a saint. Ambition was his only motivation to pretend to care for anyone but himself. He was sure this was also the case for his father.  
            Set on what he wanted to do, Lord Devonshire got to his feet and left his study. He’d only taken a few steps down the hall when, from the door that led to the dungeon, his best knight emerged. So he broke into a light jog to follow.  
            “Ah, Sir Baudwin,” he hollered, “thou art forsooth the man I wanted to see!”  
            The tall Scotsman turned and looked down at him. “My Lord,” he greeted.  
            Lord Devonshire stood in front of him in the narrow hallway. As he spoke, he wrung his hands. It was a nervous habit of his that he’d never quite been able to shake, not in his thirty-eight years alive. Sir Baudwin knew the gesture well by now, he figured; they’d known each other since childhood, after all.  
            “How fares the prisoner? De Sant . . .” He trailed off when he realized that he’d forgotten the thief’s name.  
            “De Saint-Clair,” Sir Baudwin told him. “Paschal de Saint-Clair.”  
            Lord Devonshire rolled his eyes. “What a name. Anyway, how fares he?”  
            “Still vexing.” This trisyllabic answer from the knight was curt, but Lord Devonshire was well familiar with that tone. Sir Baudwin Napier was a brusque man by nature, but he meant well. Cederic appreciated him regardless . . . or at least appreciated the loyalty he showed.  
            “Figured as much.” The earl laughed. Then he clasped his hands and put on a more serious face. Sensing that he was about to get to the point, Sir Baudwin straightened his posture. When he stood straight, he was three inches taller, but neither of them minded having to crook their heads.  
            With a finger on his right hand, Lord Devonshire tapped the knight’s breastplate. He announced, “I have an office for thee.”  
            Sir Baudwin replied, “I wait for your command, my Lord.”  
            Oh, how Cederic enjoyed having someone so wrapped around his finger. He would never tire of Sir Baudwin’s obedience. It was as though, rather than a man, he had an armoured dog that hungered for his affection and approval. He thought that so often that at some point he’d forgotten that the knight was anything more. And there was no need to treat a pet as a man.

* * *

Sir Baudwin obeyed, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. As he trudged out through the castle’s gates, he held himself with stoicism, but underneath it he fumed. Lord Devonshire had promised him only earlier that he’d be relieved of his duties for the day. He wanted to go back home to his wife, Genevieve. She was with child, due to give birth soon. He wanted to be with her. Yet here he was, running errand after errand for the earl. It was almost as if the man’s requests for him would never end.  
            He put his helmet back on as he walked down the steps that led to Exeter’s main square. The town had been lucky enough not to have suffered the recent resurfacing of the plague. Every so often, isolated incidents would occur, but they had plenty of doctors to help. But did they help? They lingered as moral support for the victims and served as warnings for others to avoid infection. Did they actually _help_ those who were ill, though? Sir Baudwin thought not. Once someone contracted the plague, no amount of advice could save them. It was a matter of chance: either the plague would be fatal, or it would pass. In most cases, it was the former.  
            Still, they did receive handsome payment for documentation and whatever else they tried, or pretended, to do. In fact, they even made more money than he did. As a knight, Sir Baudwin took offence at finding himself on a lower level than the physicians. He was envious of them.  
            _They don’t deserve so much_ , he thought. _Had I a death wish,_ I _could do their offices twice as well._  
            He needed money to support his wife and the child they’d soon have. They weren’t low class, with a decent amount of land, but it was the cost of living they struggled with. They sometimes went days without food. A baby wouldn’t be able to do that. He needed money. That need wasn’t foreign to him.  
            The Napier family hadn’t been royal nor rich. Sir Baudwin had grown up in poverty much worse than what he and his wife were going through now. He’d been the youngest in a family brimming with. They’d needed money then; though he and his siblings did everything they could, it wasn’t enough, even on top of their father’s income as a candle maker. Even so, they were a family of honour, honour that at the mere age of five, Sir Baudwin couldn’t understand.  
            He was an intelligent child who only wanted to help his family. So he watched the behaviour of a potato badger for a week before, in broad daylight, robbing him of his money. When he got home, he told his family that he’d earned it for a good deed. But then the guards arrived.  
            He remained in the castle’s dungeon for a week, but after a near-incessant scolding, they allowed him to return home. His family didn’t welcome him back. Rather, they gave him the cold shoulder and ignored him. When he was seven, they disowned him completely. He’d gone against their code of honour and betrayed their trust. Ever since then, Sir Baudwin had dedicated himself wholly to being a good citizen. If that meant giving up his freedom to every little crook of a younger man’s finger, then so be it. He’d give up anything to prove to his family that he’d learnt his lesson. Anything but Genevieve.  
            He’d met her shortly after arriving in Exeter. She’d been a bartender at the time. The first time she delivered him a drink, he fell for her and she for him. So often did she stop to talk, other patrons grew weary of even hearing his name, never mind seeing him on the street. She’d been the one to recommend that he join the guardsmen. Looking back on it, he both loved and hated that he’d taken her up on it.  
            He was only fifteen when he began training. By the time he displayed his skills to the earl, Arthur Gilpin, and his fourteen-year-old son, he was seventeen and had a lot of promise. He’d worked hard for two years, harder than any man before. He knew he needed to impress. The earl had hardly noticed him, of course, but the same didn’t apply to his son, Cederic. Once he got a job among the town’s guards, the earl’s son approached him and expressed his admiration. Besides Genevieve, young Cederic became Sir Baudwin’s only friend. They remained close like brethren for years. When the earl passed, Cederic took his place. Little did Baudwin realize that this would be the beginning of the end for their friendship.  
            As his first show of power, Cederic immediately promoted Baudwin straight to knighthood, on the condition that he work for him and him alone. It was a move that caused controversy, as the son of a candle maker was, in the eyes of most, not fit for any position of royalty. At the time, though, Cederic hadn’t cared. All that’d mattered to him then was that it made Baudwin ecstatic.  
            At some point, though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact time it began, the power started to get to Cederic’s head. He lost his warm disposition and hardened, though he still tried to appear kind. All he seemed to care about anymore was his image. As long as the townspeople adored him, he didn’t care about what he had to do to anyone. He’d become more demanding of Sir Baudwin in particular, using him more as a loyal servant than a friend. But, when it came down to it, was he anything else to the earl? As a knight, that’s all he should be: a servant; a soldier. Still, it hurt to sit back and watch his old friend become so jaded. It hurt to lose one of the last people who cared for him to cruel ambition.  
            With a heavy sigh, Sir Baudwin brought his focus back to his current task. He watched a plague doctor exit a home across the street, but didn’t jump to any conclusions.  
            “You’ll know him when you see him,” had been Lord Devonshire’s hint. This plague doctor looked like any other—he doubted that this was the one he was to fetch. There had to be one that looked different from the rest. Stifling his dissuasion, Sir Baudwin puffed out his chest and continued his brisk walk deeper into the quiet town.


	3. Exeter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on March 14th, 2018.

The streets were emptier than usual. Not that it was a bad thing: Klaus enjoyed the solitude. Somehow, he felt more welcomed alone than with people. If he was alone, he wouldn’t have to see people avert their eyes, nor people making active efforts to distance themselves from him. Not that he blamed them; if he was a civilian and he saw a plague doctor pass by, would his reaction be any different? He doubted it.  
            When he was offered the occupation and signed the contract, he was aware of the ostracization that was to befall him. What he hadn’t realized was the extent to which it would fall. He was wealthy, but lived alone. The only people he ever interacted with at distances closer than three feet were victims of the plague. Though, his cane was useful in keeping them at least a foot away still. Whenever anyone who didn’t know or didn’t care about his profession got too close, he’d use the cane to push them back. It’d been months since he touched another person. Vice versa, as well. He convinced himself that he hadn’t forgotten what human touch felt like. When he tried to imagine it in his head, though, he found himself at a loss.  
            Worse yet was that he no longer knew the sound of his own voice. The bird-beaked mask he wore muffled it too much unless he shouted, so he opted not to speak at all. He only ever gestured with his cane, or sometimes his hands if he felt especially expressive.  
            With every passing day, he forgot a little bit more of what it meant to be human. He only hoped that one day, he’d stop being able to recognize his losses. That apathy would absorb him in his entirety, causing him to stop caring. To stop _yearning_ for what he could no longer have or do. He’d never been a social man in his youth. It wasn’t until he became a plague doctor that he realized how much he’d wanted to be.  
            Two children, both girls, rushed out from behind a building in front of him and began playing in the street. Though it was July, it’d been raining off and on for the past couple of weeks. The girls’ attention fell at once onto a puddle. With the carelessness that came with childhood, they began splashing in it, giggling as they soiled their cheap dresses.  
            Klaus stopped in his tracks on the middle of the road and stared at them. He watched them play and realized that his only thought was how he couldn’t understand them.  
            _How can they laugh?_ He wondered. _How can they laugh so at as dark a time as this? All around them, people are sick and dying. Yet they laugh, like everything is fine._  
            He wanted to laugh too, but the sound was so foreign to him that for a long moment he couldn’t figure out how to reproduce it.  
            The shorter girl noticed him first. He flinched when he met her gaze through the glass lenses of his mask, expecting to see her delicate face shift into one of horror. Instead, though, she surprised him by doing something no one had done in a long time: she smiled at him. As if beckoning him to join them, she extended her arm out. Her gesture made him tense up in sudden anxiety. Did she not know what he was? Or did she know, but didn’t care? Was she welcoming him out of kindness, or out of ignorance?  
            He didn’t have long to puzzle before the taller girl noticed him as well. When she realized what he was, she gasped in horror and pulled the smaller girl close to herself. Then, pulling the little one along, she disappeared behind the building they had run out from.  
            _She must have been older_ , Klaus thought in an embittered way, _and better able to comprehend that my presence means lingering death._  
            He’d noticed that, over the months, his thoughts had grown darker and more cynical. His personality was changing to adapt to his new lifestyle. To the recognition that his only acquaintances would all be dead before the season’s end. He convinced himself that his increasing contempt for humanity was a good thing. It certainly made his job easier. All he wanted was for the plague to die out forever. That was why he’d taken up the profession in the first place: to feel like he was helping to cure the world in some small way. It was a naïve and idealistic wish, he knew that. But once the plague disappeared, he could become his old self again.  
            _If I even know how._  
            Undeterred, he continued on his way down the streets of Exeter. His destination was the local pest-house, where he was due to “treat” some patients. In truth, he wasn’t sure he was ever able to do anything to help. Sometimes he could make someone more comfortable, but not once had the plague ever been remedied by his hand.  
            _I must be doing_ something _right, though_ , he thought, _if I’ve not caught the disease myself._  
            He’d heard plenty of stories, painted with irony. Plague doctors catching the pestilence and meeting their end due to it. By now, he knew them to be true. If he wasn’t careful, he may wind up with it himself. Being careful restricted how well he could assist the plague’s victims. It seemed like a vicious cycle that, if broken, would result in his death. He always had plenty of lavender and mint in his pockets, in case he needed to refill his mask at any point. Not that he could smell the plants anymore; he’d long grown used to the overpowering perfumes. It was a frequent worry of his that no longer being able to smell them would put him at risk of smelling the plague, instead. If that happened, how long until he developed the symptoms? His only comfort was that it hadn’t happened yet, so there was a chance it never would. As long as the flowers remained, whether he could smell them or not, it seemed he’d be fine.  
            _But what if I run out of flowers? What if all the flowers I have die, leaving me with nothing? What then?_  
            He tried not to trouble himself with hypotheticals, but in this case, it was too real a worry to dismiss. Getting more flowers was a frequent task. They almost seemed to die faster than ever when in his possession.  
            The pest-house was near the edge of the city. Much like infected houses themselves, there was a red cross painted across the door. “Lᴏʀᴅ, ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴄʏ ᴏɴ ᴜs” inscribed upon it in black. Compared to everything else, it looked so remote; no one wanted their business or home to be near such a building. Most who entered the pest-house would not leave it alive.  
            It was dark inside, illuminated by only a few candles. Even from the entrance, Klaus could hear moans of agony from the afflicted individuals within. Every time, it took more and more willpower not to turn around and leave again. Instead, this time he was able to suck it up and head deeper inside.  
            There were only three or four other plague doctors. They paced around the main room of the building, in which there were rows of cots. Klaus supposed they should feel grateful that only eight of them were occupied today. Yesterday, eleven had been. On the low number of doctors, the German could only assume there were more—that they worked in shifts. Never having heard of anything like that, though, he simply checked in whenever he felt obligated to.  
            The other physicians didn’t even glance his way. When his own co-workers didn’t accept him, how was he supposed to feel like he belonged at all? He didn’t, did he? After all, he was a foreigner: a German among Brits. Even his patients seemed to prefer others to him. He seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. Oh, how he longed to fit in . . . Would he, if he were a patient?  
            A person in one of the cots, unconscious and drenched in sweat, had buboes on their inner thighs. Someone had placed leeches on the swollen pustules; the sight of it almost made Klaus sigh. Leeching was something he was on the fence about. He’d never dare try it himself; it never seemed to help too much, anyway.  
            Another patient was pneumonic, coughing in a desperate attempt to clear their lungs. Klaus watched from afar, now comforted by the mask he wore. The doctor glanced around. Was there anything for him to do here?  
            From his bag, he pulled out a booklet of paper. There was a desk at the far end of the room with a quill and jar of ink; he approached it, feeling small. On his paper, he documented:  
            “8 July 1665: eight infected in Exeter pest-house. One suffering from pneumonic plague. Expected dead: eight.”  
            Pneumonic plague spread fast. There wasn’t much they knew to do to stop it. With his growing pessimism, he felt safe in assuming the other seven would develop it and die soon enough.  
            “Hark . . .” The weak, hoarse voice requesting attention made Klaus jolt. It sounded like it was directed at him, but he couldn’t be sure. He was slow in turning to face the contagious individual who only a few seconds ago had been coughing up a lung.  
            “I prithee . . .” groaned the infected man. “May I have some water . . . ?”  
            Klaus glanced around. No other doctors were nearby to heed the request. There was a pitcher of drinking water on a smaller table near the desk he was at, so he approached it. With his gloved hands, he poured a cup of the near-transparent liquid. He then approached, offering it to the sick man, holding the rim of the glass so it could be grabbed from the bottom. No risk of physical contact that way.  
            With a weary nod, he took the water. “Bless you,” he wheezed. Klaus watched for a beat as he struggled to drink, then turned back to the desk and picked up his papers.  
            _I have intent to help_ , he thought, feeling helpless himself. _Alas, that’s difficult to do when I’m unwelcome and can’t_ touch _anyone._  
            So, after returning his brief documentation to his bag, he headed out of the pest-house. He opened and closed the door with his cane, not wanting to touch the metal handles again. Then, after taking a moment to centre himself, he started walking down the street again. There was a haze in his mind, causing him to zone out as he wandered, aimless. He made sure to hover around the middle of the road, where people tended not to walk.  
            There were footsteps a good few feet behind him. He paid them no mind until a deep Scottish voice hollered at him.  
            “Ho,” called the stranger. “Doctor!”  
            Klaus turned. Keeping a distance, there stood a tall knight in full armour, helmet and all. He was a giant compared to most men the plague doctor had laid eyes on. Perhaps confident his armour would protect him, the knight approached. When he got within two feet, Klaus instinctively held out the cane. The knight had already stopped, though, and regarded the cane with contempt.  
            “I know, I know,” he complained. “I have no intention of coming any closer to you.” Then he was silent a moment as he stared at Klaus, who kept his head tilted down. The wide brim of his dark leather hat hid his eyeholes from view; he used this to avoid eye contact. Though, he couldn’t see the knight’s eyes well through his helmet anyway . . .  
            “Be you Dr. Klaus Fleischer?” inquired the knight. It sounded like he was Scottish, but it was hard to tell.  
            Klaus nodded and felt self-conscious all of a sudden. Was it true, then, that he stood out from the other plague doctors? It must’ve been because he still wore his German-made work outfit. It was different from the English costume, but not so much as to be too noticeable, he’d thought. Only then did he realize he seemed to have developed mild social phobia from lack of conversation. The words coming out of the knight’s mouth scared him for reasons he couldn’t describe. His only solace was in the soothing lavender smell coming from the plants jammed into the nose of his mask.  
            “I be Sir Baudwin Napier.” The Scot held out his hand for a handshake, but changed his mind and pulled it back before Klaus could fathom why he’d offered it in the first place. “I work for Lord Devonshire,” he explained in a terse voice. “I have orders from him to fetch you. He should like to speak with you straight.”  
            When Klaus nodded again, he looked around.  
            “Where is thine escort?”  
            Klaus froze up. He’d mistaken Sir Baudwin’s footsteps for those of his escort’s, but it seemed that somewhere along the line, he’d wound up roaming on his own. Walking the town’s streets unsupervised was in violation of his contract. Under his mask, he began to sweat. He was only too relieved when Sir Baudwin shrugged.  
            “Oh, forget it. I have not purpose to arrest or accuse anyone of misconduct.” The way the knight said those words made them feel like an accusation in and of themselves, but Klaus tried not to read too much into it. “I prithee, follow me, Doctor Fleischer. I shall take you to see Lord Devonshire.” He then turned around and started to walk.  
            Klaus remained frozen in place for a few beats more, considering his options. Did he have any? No, not quite. He didn’t have anything better to do other than return home alone, anyway. So, with a low, anxious breath, he held his cane close and followed after the knight.


	4. Exeter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on March 18th, 2018

The dungeon door swung open once more, this time disturbing the tranquillity Paschal had struggled to get back. It was with an impatient huff that he sat up on the cot.  
            “I thought you were done talking with me, sirrah,” he taunted without looking up. After brushing his long, curly black hair out of his face, he rubbed his left eye with the back of his hand.  
            “Is that what thou hast been calling my best knight?” It was a different voice than before, an English one. Paschal’s head shot up to discover a taller than average man with blond hair. He looked to be royalty by his clothing and the proud way he held himself. Not to mention the two guards standing a mere foot behind him. “That’s not nice, de Saint Clair.”  
            “You must be the earl, then,” observed the thief as he stood up. “Lord Devonshire, I presume?”  
            “Tis I.” Lord Devonshire bowed. It came off as arrogant and rubbed Paschal the wrong way, but he dared not say so, lest he be a hypocrite.  
            “Be you here to escort me to my death? Because I warn you: I shan’t go down without a fight.”  
            The earl smiled and shook his head. “Thou misunderstandst me. I have use for thee yet, thief.”  
            What followed was a hostile staring match. Paschal’s brown eyes searched Lord Devonshire’s, trying to read him. He saw pride, a sickening level of it. Though he knew he and the earl weren’t all that different, he felt intense contempt toward him. Because he was a people person who tended to like everyone he met, his automatic distrust of this man alarmed him. His gut told him to avoid him at all costs. Alas, it was already much too late for that; he was his prisoner.  
            Lord Devonshire gestured to one of his guards. The said man then opened Paschal’s cell door. He reached out to grab the short thief.  
            _One shot. Don’t waste it!_  
            Paschal ducked under the man and threw himself forward. He slammed into Lord Devonshire, who gasped in surprise, but he didn’t let it slow him down. Then he made a mad dash for the door out. It led to a staircase, which he started hopping up two steps at a time.  
            “Stop him!” shouted Lord Devonshire from below.  
            _Run, run, run. I can ‘scape if I keep running!_  
            When he got out of the staircase, he whipped his head right, then left. To his right, deeper into the case. To his left, the main hall.  
            _Left, then._  
            He pivoted to the left, leather boots squeaking on the stone floor. As he careened into the large hall, he felt hope . . . until he saw the two guards stationed around the exit unsheathe their swords. In Paschal’s head, he went back in forth in a matter of seconds.  
            _What do I do? Push past them! They’ll kill me. I can take them! They’ve_ swords _!_  
            Deciding not to take his chances, he turned around, prepared to rush deeper into the castle. When he turned, though, he saw Lord Devonshire and his two guards enter. From his belt, the earl whipped out a silver dagger that Paschal knew well. He then pointed the thief’s own dagger at him. As if noticing the recognition, he flashed a smug smirk.  
            “Piteous creature,” he crooned. “Meseems thou hast nowhere else to run.”  
            “Fie upon you,” growled Paschal.  
            “I’m not so foolish, thief. I knew thou shouldst attempt to ‘scape. What man wouldn’t?”  
            “Belike I must ask: if you plan not to finish me off, what need you me for?”  
            “Hast thou heard?”  
            “Heard what?”  
            “About the tragedy occurring in London as we speak.”  
            Paschal frowned, but didn’t answer. He _had_ heard, in passing, about the resurgence of the plague. It was horrible.  
            _All those poor people_ , he lamented in his head. _None of them deserve such a miserable demise. No one does._  
            Lord Devonshire returned Paschal’s dagger to his belt. “We shall attend on my guard to return with someone thou must meet. Then I’ll explain my intent for thee.”  
            “I mean not to be my own undoing, but I _am_ a criminal. Have you forgotten that?”  
            “Of course not. In fact, that’s the only reason why I request thy help.” That said, the earl walked over to the throne in the backmost centre of the room. As he walked, Paschal resisted the urge to attempt another escape. He had to admit: he was curious about what he needed him for.  
            _Haply I could escape death if I obey him._  
            Sure, giving in and not fighting hurt his pride, but he’d prefer to live to fight another day.  
            All along the main hall were large stands full of candles, but none were lit. Instead, the lighting came from outside through the large, panelled glass windows.  
            Lord Devonshire stepped up a little ledge and onto a platform, upon which was his luxurious red velvet throne. He took his seat and lounged in comfort. At his feet, leading all the way to the large wooden double doors across the hall, was a scarlet carpet woven of silk, of all things. Paschal daydreamed of people walking along it and slipping, finding the thought amusing.  
            The thief spent the next twenty minutes jabbering on and on, despite no one giving him any responses. He’d been about to stop at one point, when he saw Lord Devonshire rub his brow in discreet frustration. That gave him the motivation to continue his rambling. Anything to knock the conceited earl down a peg or two.  
            “God’s love,” complained the earl on a low breath. “Where be they? The doctor can’t be _that_ bloody hard to find . . .”  
            Paschal raised a brow. “A doctor, you say? Well, I’d argue that’d be much like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”  
            “Thou wouldst be wrong,” Lord Devonshire countered.  
            Another ten minutes came and went. The thief continued to prattle about various trivial subjects. He avoided bragging about his crimes, lest he set himself up for worse punishment, but lingered too long on the weather and current (poor) standing of the economy. He was in the midst of a rant about how food had become more expensive that week alone when the doors opened. Lord Devonshire stood when in stepped the same knight Paschal had spoken to earlier.  
            “Sir Baudwin Napier!” Lord Devonshire proudly greeted the knight as he clasped his hands. He must’ve been relieved to be spared anymore of Paschal’s ranting. “Welcome back, gentle knight! I assume thou has the doctor?”  
            “He follows close behind me, my Lord.”  
            “Not _too_ close, I hope,” remarked the earl with a snicker.  
            Sir Baudwin entered and stood only a few metres from Paschal. The thief found himself more curious than before. What was so important about this doctor that the earl had sent a knight to fetch him?  
            “Thou mayst enter, Dr. Fleischer,” Lord Devonshire called out.  
            Into the main hall stepped a plague doctor. Paschal had seen many, but none like this one. No, this physician was different. His outfit wasn’t English nor French. The signature wide-brimmed hat he wore tilted to his left, giving it a crooked appearance. If he wasn’t mistaken, it seemed longer than what he’d seen on others. His long black overcoat, made of the same leather as the rest of the costume, ended above his booted feet. In his right hand, he held the typical plague doctor cane. It was light brown and slender, but sturdy enough to be used as a walking stick if he needed.  
            Dr. Fleischer seemed to gaze at everyone in the room, starting with Lord Devonshire, then straight past Paschal to Sir Baudwin. Then, he skimmed his gaze to the left. Though he couldn’t see it, the thief knew in his gut that their eyes locked. There _was_ something different about this plague doctor, something that he couldn’t put a name to.  
            When the doctor slowly approached, everyone in the room made an effort to back up but Paschal. The Frenchman remained perfectly still. No one noticed their preoccupation with one another, but both the earl and his knight stared at Paschal as if he was insane. They couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t back up with them. Did he have a death wish?  
            Dr. Fleischer stopped halfway into the main hall. There was a moment of stillness. Then, without saying a word, Paschal stepped forward. He approached the doctor with confidence in his step. Though the doctor flinched, he didn’t try to stop him.  
            Once about a foot away, he stopped as well. As he extended his hand for a handshake, the plague doctor lifted his cane to distance him on instinct. Paschal glanced at it, but then gently pushed it down. This caused the physician to twitch in surprise. When he made no further movement, the thief reached down and grabbed his left hand. He raised it and shook it with a firm grip.  
            “What art thou doing?” demanded Sir Baudwin. “Has thou gone mad?”  
            “He’s a plague doctor,” replied Paschal, “not the embodiment of the plague itself. Extending him a simple greeting won’t bring about my demise any sooner than allowing you to drag me to the deathsman, now will it?” Then he turned back to the plague doctor and showed him a handsome smile. “I am Paschal de Saint-Clair. It’s nice to meet you, Doctor . . .”  
            The doctor didn’t reply, nor did he move at all, for that matter.  
            “His name is Klaus Fleischer,” Lord Devonshire revealed. “He’s not known for speech.”  
            “Hmm. Interesting name. German, right?”  
            Klaus responded with a small, meek nod. His grip on Paschal’s hand was virtually non-existent. He didn’t fight to remove his hand from the thief’s, but he accepted the handshake more than he returned it. Paschal didn’t take offense at this, though. It was clear he’d stunned the plague doctor by welcoming him. He’d seen how the general populous responded to people like Klaus. It was never a pleasant sight. Plague doctors were treated worse than garbage: they were treated like _nothing_. Held in contempt by some, but ignored by all.  
            _What a lonely life that must be_ , Paschal had thought to himself many times. Now was no exception. He pitied Klaus at once. Even though he was a thief, at heart he was still a good man.  
            The others in the room were less than thrilled by Paschal’s interaction with Klaus. As if impatient, Lord Devonshire got back to business at once. He sat down and pulled out a rolled-up letter from his sleeve, which he then unrolled in front of himself. After clearing his throat, he announced,  
            “Paschal de Saint-Clair, this letter I have before me dictates that I may decide thy fate.”  
            That got the thief’s attention; he turned around to face the earl. Lord Devonshire refolded the letter, then pulled out another.  
            “This letter is from London. They are in dire need of a plague doctor, as their last one has died. I’ve decided to send them our best.” He was lying through his teeth, but only Klaus knew that, and he refused to speak up.  
            “Forgive my ignorance,” remarked Paschal, “but I fail to see what this has to do with me.”  
            Lord Devonshire pursed his lips and rolled the letter back up. He then pointed the paper at the thief like some sort of sceptre. “I have decided thy fate. Thou, Paschal de Saint-Clair, will be useful for one time in thy life by being Dr. Fleischer’s escort.”  
            Everyone in the room looked at the earl as if he was now the one whose sanity they questioned. This did little to dissuade him.  
            “If thou art to contract the plague, then that shall be thy fate. If thou makest it to London with Dr. Fleischer, uncontaminated, then I will see thy charges dropped. Thou shalt be a free man, given a second chance.”  
            Paschal’s brown eyes widened. His jaw hung slack for a moment, but the instant he realized it, he clamped it shut and gulped. Had he heard that right? All he had to do was take the plague doctor beside him to London. How hard could that be? It was almost as if his freedom was being handed to him on a silver platter.  
            “Pray ye? My Lord, have you lost your wit?” asked Sir Baudwin. “I mean no disrespect in saying this, but it’d be mad to send a criminal as the only escort! Think of the highwaymen.” He pointed accusingly at the Frenchman. “He _is_ one!”  
            “How now! I be no lousy highwayman!” argued Paschal. “I have higher standards!”  
            “Buzz, knave!” spat Sir Baudwin.  
            “Of course he won’t be the only escort,” Lord Devonshire daintily told him.  
            “Then who will go with them?”  
            “Thou. Who else?”  
            That took Sir Baudwin aback. He glanced at the thief and the plague doctor in mute shock, then looked back at his superior. Through a nervous titter, he said, “My Lord . . . this must be some sort of mistake. My wife, she—”  
            “Thine office be more important than family matters.”  
            “Needn’t you voice for this?”  
            “Not in this case.” The earl leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Be thou questioning my course, Sir Baudwin?”  
            The knight choked on his words, struggling to say something but not wanting to display disobedience. So, instead, he lowered his head and swallowed his pride. “No, my Lord.”  
            Watching Sir Baudwin’s argument crumble, part of Paschal felt bad. Most of him, though, had to fight the urge to laugh. He was unable to prevent a cruel smirk from spreading across his face. Unlike how he felt for Dr. Fleischer, he hadn’t a single ounce of sympathy for the knight.  
            Appeased, the earl turned his attention back to Paschal. “What say thee? Will thou accept my challenge?”  
            Paschal considered this for a beat. He still wasn’t sure; it sounded easy, but there was no denying the danger involved. “My Lord,” he began, to appease the earl, “there must be something else I can do.”  
            “What _say_ thee?” stressed the earl, impatient. “Thine options are this or execution.”  
            The thief recoiled and rolled his eyes. “Well, when you put it that way . . .” He sighed. “What are your conditions?”  
            Lord Devonshire did a wry smirk. “Dr. Fleischer must arrive in London before the week’s end. This alone should be no difficult feat, but there’s more. He must arrive unharmed and in perfect health. Thou must be with him, and Sir Baudwin with thee. If thou flee, my power shall hunt thee down and kill thee upon sight. Shouldst thou disobey or show disloyalty to Sir Baudwin, he has the right to end thy life at his own discretion. If I hear word that any of these conditions are betrayed and that thou still livest, thou shalt be put to death straight.” Then, he smiled in a nicer way, but his eyes still looked evil. “If everything goes well, though, thou shalt be free to roam England as a welcome citizen, assuming thou commitst no further crimes.”  
            Paschal considered Lord Devonshire’s rules. There were a lot of things that could go wrong, but the offer of a cleaned slate was too good to refuse. In his eyes, he’d have to be stupid to pass it up. So, holding himself as tall as he could, he raised his head and declared, “I accept.”


End file.
